


Most Wonderful Time of the Year

by OfRosesAndRavenstags



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Derek Hale, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Gay Smut, Lemons, M/M, Rimming, Secret Santa, Smut, Teen Wolf Secret Santa 2015, Top!Stiles, bottom!Derek, handjobs, humans!au, most wonderful time of the year (movie)!AU, safe anal sex, sterek, strangers!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfRosesAndRavenstags/pseuds/OfRosesAndRavenstags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: The Hallmark movie, "Most Wonderful Time of the Year."</p><p>Stiles meets Derek on his flight home from New York. When Derek's flight gets delayed on Christmas Eve, Stiles offers him a place to stay. </p><p>The sheriff isn't exactly fond of the idea, but he lets it happen (thankfully).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**Author's Note:**

> To the lovely Rita (@aboutawolf on Tumblr) for Christmas. <3 And, by the way, anyone who has ever seen the Hallmark movie “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” will be like, “OMG, this is it! This is the prompt!” and they’ll be right. I watched the movie and decided to Sterek-ify it. And add smut. :D

Stiles hated airports. 

He’d spent seemingly countless hours in them and, contrary to the advertisements, airports are not a nice place to spend a night. Stiles had discovered that the hard way, when he had been trying to fly back home from one of his business trips in New York and his flight got delayed not once, not twice, but _three times_. By the time he had finally been seated on the plane, he’d had the worst kink in his neck he’d ever received and only a free bottle of cheap, airplane wine for his troubles. 

So, naturally, when Stiles heard that the attractive, mysterious stranger he’d shared a ten-hour flight with was fated to be stranded in the airport for the night, he was signing himself up to be the Good Samaritan. 

“ _Come on, Derek. Spend the night with me and my father. I mean, I owe you one, man. You got me into first class, and those warm towels were what got me through that flight. Plus, you don’t deserve to be spending the night before Christmas Eve in an airport. They suck to sleep in. Trust me. I’ve been there. Too many times._ ”

Derek, who had been on his way to Hawaii to spend Christmas with his sister, had told Stiles in parting that he would be stuck in a California airport for the night due to a rare weather crisis in the Aloha State. 

“ _You don’t have to do that,_ ” Derek had stated, small carry-on in-hand. “ _I wouldn’t want to bother you and your family._ ”

“ _It’s no problem, du—_ “

“ _Don’t call me dude._ ”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “ _Okay,_ dude. _Seriously, though. My dad’s the Sheriff. We’re not axe murderers. Well, I guess we could be._ ”

“ _Reassuring._ ”

“ _Just, come on. My house isn’t far from here. We have a couch that’s a hundred times more comfortable than anything in his hell-hole._ ”

Derek had looked around at the hundreds of people rushing by them and frowned. “ _Okay,_ ” he had said finally, putting his bag over his shoulder. 

Stiles had grinned. “ _Awesome._ _My car’s in the parking garage. His name is Roscoe and I can’t wait for you to meet him._ ”

 

~~~

 

When they arrived at the house, Derek said “nice place” like the quiet gentleman he appeared to be.

The key slid smoothly from the ignition, and Stiles tucked it into his palm. “Thanks, du—“

“Don’t call me that.” 

Derek had tried to seem annoyed, but Stiles saw the slight twitch at the corner of Derek’s mouth, saw the faintest of smiles. “Sorry. Habit,” he said, not even trying to hide his grin. “Anyway, stay in here until I come get you. Don’t touch anything, though—Roscoe’s fragile. I’m going to talk to my father.”

Derek raised a perfect, thick eyebrow and shifted in the seat. “You didn’t ask your father about this? About a stranger that you invited into his home for the night?”

“Of course not.” Stiles said.

“Will—“

“Calm down, okay? I guarantee he’ll be okay with it—especially when I tell him that you actually know how to cook.” Stiles winked. 

Derek didn’t argue when Stiles got out of the Jeep and fetched his suitcase. He walked to the front door and threw Derek a final smile over his shoulder before disappearing inside. 

“I’m home, Dad!” Stiles said cheerily, walking through the front door and depositing his bag on the floor. On his way to the living room, he stepped on a creaky board—the loudest and Stiles’s most hated in the entire house. His father had always called it their free security system, but Stiles had always failed to recognize its worth. But instead of cursing it this time, Stiles only said “Oh, how I missed you, board,” smiling as he continued towards his father. “Every thing was a little too perfect in my hotel. Everything was too clean, too new.”

The sheriff was lounging on the recliner, watching hockey. It was late—nearly ten in the evening—but his shift wasn’t until noon the next day and he hadn’t seen his son in a month. Stiles’s trip to New York had been for business, and Stiles had been unable to call while his father was off shift. _It’s the timezones, I swear,_ Stiles had told his father one night in response to the sheriff asking why they had hardly talked. _And work is crazy here; the new location isn’t as organized as we had thought._

“How was New York?” the sheriff asked. 

Stiles shrugged. “I didn’t see much of it, to be honest. I spent the majority of my time there either writing reports or attending meetings.”

“I hope your flight was at least decent, then, son.”

Stiles’s gaze turned to the floor at that, his long fingers moving to toy with the hem of his top. “About that, Dad—umm, I kinda need a favor.”

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Stiles—“

“It’s nothing major, I swear, and it’s just for one—“

“Stiles?” 

Stiles turned his head sharply to look at the intruder, felt the harsh sting of whiplash. “Ouch!”

The sheriff stood. “Stiles? Who is this?”

Stiles winced and rubbed his neck, his eyes on Derek. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

Derek looked startled—white-faced, a deer before headlights. “There was an elderly lady who kept staring at me while she stroked her cat. It was creepy and weird.”

“Stiles? You know this man?”

Stiles’s hands were twitchy, refusing to settle. “Yeah, Dad. This was, umm, the favor I was getting to telling you about.” He glares accusingly at Derek before continuing. “Dad, meet Derek. Derek, meet my Dad.”

“What’s your last name, _Derek_? Where are you from?”

Derek swallowed hard, but the appearance of nervousness quickly dissipated when a facade of confidence fell into place. “Hale, sir,” he began, voice steadied. “Derek Hale. I’m currently living in New York.”

“What brings you to California?”

“Joint flight to Hawaii. My sister and I were planning to spend the holidays there.”

Stiles interrupted. “Derek helped me get bumped up to first class after our flight had been delayed. Dad, first class is so much better than economical.”

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “So why is he here and not on his way to Hawaii?”

“His flight got delayed for the night. I told him that he could stay here for the night, because airport floors suck. You remember when my flight got delayed three times? Yeah, that was terrible.”

“You told him he could stay here for the night?” the sheriff said. His expression was blank. “Stiles? Can I talk to you alone?”

Stiles nodded and followed his father into the kitchen awkwardly. “Dad—“

“Do you trust this guy?”

Stiles frowned. “Well, yeah, but, I mean, I wouldn’t have invited him here if I thought he would do anything.”

“This is just for tonight?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah.”

The sheriff rubbed his palm across his forehead and frowned, but nodded. “If he takes anything, you’re going to be the one dealing with the insurance company.”

“Yes! Yes! Thank you.” Stiles hugged his father, practically crushed the older man’s chest in his arms before he walked back into the living room. 

Derek looked up at him in question. 

“You can stay!” Stiles exclaimed. 

“I’m going to bed,” the sheriff said. “Derek, you can stay on the couch for the night. Don’t take anything.”

“Thank you, sir,” Derek said. 

“‘Night, Dad,” Stiles said. 

“Good night, Stiles.”

And then the sheriff was walking upstairs and was soon out of sight. Stiles looked to Derek and smiled weakly before realizing that he should get Derek some sheets and a pillow or something to sleep on. 

“I’ll get you some blankets,” Stiles stated, leaving the room momentarily before coming back with a pile of fleeces in-hand. 

Their fingers brushed briefly as Stiles handed Derek the blankets, the touch lingering and longer than necessary before Derek withdrew. “Thank you,” he said as he settled himself down on the couch. 

“No problem,” Stiles said, turning to exit the room. “Good night.”

 

~~~

 

When Stiles woke up and headed downstairs for breakfast, he was surprised to see the couch made, with the blankets and pillows folded and stacked neatly in the corner. He didn’t see Derek, and panic gripped him before he saw the note on top of the pile. 

_Stiles -_

_Thanks for everything. My flight got cancelled, so I’ll be spending the day in the airport. They say I’ll have a flight tomorrow. Happy holidays. :)_

 

_Mr. Stilinski -_

_Thank you for letting me stay in your home. Happy holidays._

 

“Shit,” Stiles murmured before letting the note float to the floor. Still in barefoot and in his pajamas from sleep, his hair a tousled mess, he rushed to the front door, hoping that Derek would still be in the driveway,somehow, that he hadn’t left yet—

Derek hadn’t left yet. 

When Stiles got through the front door, when he leapt down the front steps, he immediately saw Derek at the end of the driveway, phone to his ear. “Derek,” he said.

“Merry Christmas.”

“What are you doing?”

Derek gestured to his phone. “I’m trying to call a cab, but no one is working today, apparently, with it being Christmas.”

“Why are you leaving?”

Derek raised an eyebrow as though the answer were obvious. “It’s Christmas, Stiles. I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome, and I don’t want to be a burden to your family.”

“Derek, you are not spending _Christmas_ in an airport.”

“Stiles—“

“No. You’re staying.”

“I don’t wan—“

“You won’t be intrusive,” Stiles said. “Besides, I can’t cook half as well as I’m sure you can. Everyone would be grateful if you prepared the turkey.”

“Won’t it be awkward if I’m there? Your family doesn’t know me.”

Stiles shook his head. “It’s only going to be my father and I and my best friend and his mother.”

“Are you sure? I don’t think your father would want this, Stiles. You saw him last night. He only said yes because he was exhausted.”

“Not true. He never says yes to anything like that without thinking things through.”

“Still—“

“Come inside, Derek. I’ll ask him, and if he says no, then I’ll drive you to the airport, okay?”

Derek was quiet for a moment before he finally said a weak “Okay.”

Stiles smiled and picked up Derek’s bag, carrying it inside and depositing it on the floor. “Wait here.” He winked. “And I mean it. Don’t do what you did last time.”

Derek nodded. 

Stiles walked into the kitchen, found his father. 

“Is Derek gone already?” the sheriff asked. “I thought he would at least stay for breakfast.”

“About that,” Stiles said. “He’s in the entryway.”

The sheriff set down his coffee. “Oh?”

Stiles walked back to Derek and his father followed, albeit slightly resentfully. 

“Dad? Can he stay for dinner?” Stiles asked from Derek’s side, a pleading look consuming his features. “He can cook really well—he spent over a year as a chef in New York—and his flight got cancelled. No one deserves to spend Christmas in an airport. Plus, Dad, I repeat: he can actually cook.”

“Stiles—“

“Please, Dad.”

Derek made a weak smile. “I know a really good recipe for stuffing.”

The sheriff pursed his lips and tossed a hand. “You know what?” he said. “Fine. He can stay here for the day. You two get to cooking, and I’ll go pick up Melissa and Scott.”

“Great,” Stiles said, throwing an arm over Derek’s shoulder casually. 

“Thank you, sir.”

The sheriff picked up his coat and keys. “Just—no funny business, okay? Stiles, you know where the key to the gun cabinet is if he causes any trouble.”

Stiles was going to counter his father, assure that it wouldn’t be necessary, but the sheriff was already heading out the door. 

And so Stiles lead Derek to the kitchen and gestured to the turkey that was sitting on the counter as though to say, _This is what you’ll be working with._

“Nice bird,” Derek said appreciatively. Implied was the _I can’t believe your father let me stay._ But he didn’t mention it, opting for asking where the flour and pepper was.

“In the pantry.” Stiles went into the small closet and withdrew with the flour in one hand and a pile of cans balanced precariously on the other arm. 

“Canned carrots? Seriously?” Derek asked, cringing. “Don’t you have some real ones somewhere?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “There’s some in the bottom drawer of the fridge, but I’m not making them.”

“Fine. I’ll make them. No wonder your dad agreed to let me stay after you told him that I can cook.” He began to mumble. “Canned carrots on Christmas. Jesus.”

“Don’t sound like that’s the most revolting thing you’ve ever heard of in your life.”

“It’s up there.”

Stiles didn’t respond to that, and the two soon settled into a rhythm where Derek would ask where something was and Stiles would tell him and Derek would only occasionally poke fun at Stiles for his answer. Derek made the stuffing fairly easily and peeled the carrots like some kind of ninja or possibly Rachel Ray, and Stiles pretended to know what he was doing as he did what Derek labeled the ‘menial’ tasks: preparing the bread, making a list of everything he wanted Derek to do, and seasoning the tur—

“Please tell me you’re not just going to put some butter on the turkey and stick it in the oven,” Derek said.

“Umm, I wasn’t going to?”

“That’s another thing to add to the Derek list, then.” Derek made his way towards Stiles. “Where’s your basting brush?”

Stiles shrugged, moving to peel the potatoes as slowly as humanly possible. “I don’t know, man. Why do you need it? Isn’t that the thing you use to make cool designs on frosting and stuff?”

Derek was quiet.

Stiles turned, set the vegetable peeler on the counter. “What?”

“Stiles, if that’s what you use it for—“

“Hate to break it to you, but not everyone can be Gordon Ramsey.” Stiles turned his attention to the can of peas. “Check the drawer to your left—that’s where all the weird stuff I don’t know the name of is.”

There was the sound of the drawer opening, and then the slight tinkling of metal against metal and then Derek’s voice once more. “You seriously don’t know what a colander is?”

“Well, I always called it a strainer, but I knew that wasn’t the actual name of it.”

“Okay, so what about these tongs?”

Stiles turned around, frowned. “Those _things_ are not tongs, Derek.”

Derek squeezed the handle in demonstration, a small smile playing at his lips. “They’re tongs.”

“No, _these_ are tongs,” Stiles countered, pulling a pair out of a nearby jar. “Solid and ready to lift food off the grill. Not those weird, impossible-to-use monstrosities.”

“You really don’t—“

“Did you find the saucing brush or whatever?”

“Yes, Stiles. I found the _basting_ brush. Thank you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You better be making the best turkey I’ve ever tasted.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard about you in the kitchen, it should be. Without issue.”

Stiles elbowed Derek on his way to the can opener. “Asshole. I can totally cook. I made fantastic spaghetti last week.”

Derek snorted. “Anyone can make spaghetti. All you have to do is boil pasta and add sauce. You probably didn’t even make the sauce by hand, did you?”

“Whatever. It was delicious, and I would be a fool not to utilize the product of Hunt’s millions in their quest to make a wonderful canned sauce.” Stiles lined the can up and pressed the button. “Dammit,” he said when the machine didn’t whir to life, didn’t begin to remove the lid of the can. 

“Having trouble?” Derek asked, suddenly right behind Stiles, his words a warm exhale that skated across the skin of Stiles’s neck. 

Stiles nodded, ignoring the shiver that rolled down his spine and the jolt of warmth that slid along his skin. “Stupid thing doesn’t work, apparently.”

Derek placed his hand over Stiles’s, pressing on the button of the can opener and moving the can around until it slid into place. The machine immediately sputtered before cutting into the lid. 

“I have the magic touch,” Derek claimed before moving to step away. 

It was then that Stiles saw it: the mistletoe that Melissa had hung last week in the kitchen. He and Derek were directly under it, and Stiles suddenly had an idea, suddenly decided that he was going to go for it. Thinking about it—kissing Derek—he thought it made sense, that Derek had been giving him subtle hints about it, that it wouldn’t be a mistake. 

Stiles turned and grabbed Derek’s arm, sucking in a breath. “You know how, on the plane, I was telling you about how I was straight?” he said softly, in a rush.

Derek nodded, brow furrowed. “Yeah.”

Stiles took a step forward and leaned in close until his lips were just barely touching the shell of Derek’s ear. “I lied.”

Derek’s lips parted. “That story you told me about the girl you lost your virginity to?”

“Oh, that was still true. I’m bi, Derek.”

“Fuck,” Derek breathed. “You barely know me, Stiles. I barely know _you_.”

Stiles nodded, shrugged. “I know what I want to do to you, though.”

“We’re in your father’s house. He could be home any minute.”

“No, he won’t.” Stiles pulled his phone out of his pocket, shot a quick text to Scott. _Stall them, bro. Tell them we need another can of gravy or something._ He set his phone on the counter and turned back to Derek, crowding him against the counter. “There. We have some time, if you want.”

Derek just looked at him, mouth slightly open and his tongue tracing along the tops of his teeth. 

“Derek? Shit, did I read you wrong? I thought you—“

“No, no, I want you,” Derek said quietly, seeming to snap out of it. “Just, are you sure?”

Stiles grinned and, in answer, gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He let it fall to the floor. When he looked back up, a smile was playing at Derek’s lips. 

The room was warm, leaving Stiles’s bared nipples perky, and Derek’s gaze fell to them. 

“I want to kiss you,” Stiles admitted. “Can I k—“

Before he could finish, Derek was reaching up and cupping Stiles’s jaw in large, strong hands, his fingers teasing at the lobes of Stiles’s ears in answer. “Yes,” he whispered unnecessarily before connecting their lips, before sucking Stiles’s lower lip between his, before letting Stiles’s tongue enter his mouth with a single smooth swipe. 

Stiles backed Derek into the counter, grabbing at all of Derek frantically. His hands drifted from Derek’s shoulders to his chest and his back before they settled on Derek’s ass. Stiles let his fingers toy with Derek’s waistband, slipping far enough under to delineate his intentions and tease. 

When Stiles pulled off and moved his mouth to the column of Derek’s neck, Derek trailed his fingers along Stiles’s body before moving them to his own waist and then up, tugging his shirt over his head. When it was off, Stiles wasted no time bringing his mouth to Derek’s collarbones and then lower, until he was licking, nipping, and sucking at Derek’s nipples in turn. He watched in awe as the peaks pebbled, as Derek arched up into his mouth, as Derek wound a hand into Stiles’s hair to keep Stiles there. 

“Too many clothes,” Stiles said, and he should have felt foolish for saying the words—they were so damn cliché—but he didn’t. He only felt Derek and Derek’s warmth and his growing need to see and touch every piece of Derek he could. 

Derek brought a hand down to Stiles’s belt, fumbling with the buckle for only a moment before he had it undone and was pulling it through the loops and dropping it on the floor. He hooked his thumbs in the waist of Stiles’s jeans and slowly, too damn _slowly_ for Stiles, pushed them down, bringing Stiles’s underwear with them. They pooled around Stiles’s ankles and Stiles kicked them away as though they personally offended him. 

“Your turn,” Stiles murmured before doing the same to Derek, only with more fumbling and cursing in his attempt to divest the other man, but he succeeded in little time, and then Derek was naked before him, his cock already hard and arching towards his stomach and his nipples an abused shade of pink. 

Stiles couldn’t hide his grin at the sight of it: Derek’s perfect, uncut cock. 

Derek hissed when Stiles pushed him back and his bare ass made contact with the cold countertop and make a noise suspiciously close to a yelp when Stiles turned him around, forcing his flushed cock to touch the surface. 

Stiles grinned, his long, slender fingers stroking at Derek’s naked hips. He considered apologizing, saying something like, _Sorry I just forced your boner to touch a cold countertop,_ but settled for a terse “I want to fuck you.” He was mouthing at the shell of Derek’s ear. “Would you let me do that, Derek? Would you let me fuck you?”

“Yes,” Derek answered breathily, eyes closed and body tense. 

“I don’t have any lube in here. I do have some upstairs, th—“

“Don’t want to wait.”

Stiles paused, his mouth hovering a mere inch above the skin of Derek’s neck. “Dude, I don't care how strong you say you are— _no one_ can take a full-out anal pounding without lube.”

Stiles braced for the _Don’t call me dude_ or _don’t ever say ‘anal pounding’ ever again_ , but Derek only made a weak noise of protest and ground his ass back against Stiles’s crotch and said, “Don’t you have some coconut oil or something in here?”

“Coconut oil?”

Derek groaned and wrapped a hand around his thick cock, jacking it once and then twice from base to head with impatience. “Yes. It tastes heavenly and I’ve used it as lube before,” he finally replied. “Do you have any?”

Stiles took one hand off Derek’s hips and reached into a nearby cabinet, his fingers shaky and knocking over bottles while his head craned to scan labels. _Vegetable oil, salt, paprika, baking soda, olive oil_ …

“Yes!” he exclaimed, singlehandedly unscrewing the jar and dipping his fingers inside, only to frown. “Derek, hate to break it to you, but this stuff isn’t really lube-like.”

“Rub it together in your hands, dumbass. Heat it up.”

Stiles did as directed, and the mixture quickly melted in his palms. “Oh.”

“Take your pants off,” Derek said, reaching a hand behind his back to squeeze at Stiles’s ass. 

Stiles began to wrestle with his jeans, trying to shimmy them off, but still responded with “You’re so impatient.”

“So are you, Mr. Why-Hasn’t-Our-Flight-Taken-Off-Yet-It’s-Been-Two-Minutes.”

“Hey! It was longer than two minutes and I really wanted to get home. New York bores the hell—“

Derek cut him short. “Your fingers. Use them.”

And, abruptly, Stiles had a wicked idea and was dropping to his knees, the cold tiles chilling him as he used his hands to spread the cheeks of Derek’s ass. He ran a warm, lube-slicked thumb down to Derek’s hole, circling it for a moment before dipping just the tip of the digit inside. When Derek tried to rock into it, tried to push Stiles in deeper, Stiles merely tightened his hold and pressed Derek back into to the counter. 

Lowering his head, Stiles trailed his lips along Derek’s ass and then moved further down to bite at the insides of Derek’s thighs. He soothed the slight stings with soft, open-mouthed kisses and heavy exhales, smiling at the small, aborted thrusts Derek’s hips were making.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek panted when Stiles let his thumb slip all the way inside and thrust in and out leisurely. “More.” 

Stiles withdrew his thumb in favor of sliding his index finger inside Derek, adding his middle finger just moments later and beginning to slowly scissor the digits. When Derek began panting, making indistinguishable pleas that sounded faintly like _more_ , _harder_ , and _please, Stiles, please_ , Stiles couldn’t help himself—he pulled his fingers away entirely. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” Derek said, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. 

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Stiles admitted before placing his mouth against Derek’s rim. He pressed a couple kisses there before dropping down to lick a stripe from Derek’s balls back to his hole, making the muscles of Derek’s thighs quiver. 

Derek made a broken noise, something that was a cross between a whine and punched-out moan, and tried to rock back against Stiles again, only to be stopped once more by Stiles’s palms on his ass. Stiles licked at him, nothing more than a gentle caress of his tongue at first, before letting his tongue push inside past the first ring of muscle. 

Derek groaned, a hand moving from the counter back towards Stiles, gripping at Stiles’s shoulder as though Derek didn’t trust his knees to hold him up. “Need you,” Derek stated, his face tucked into his own shoulder. 

Stiles was going to ignore Derek’s pleas, was going to keep rimming him until Derek was wrecked and sobbing, but the unremitting throb of Stiles’s cock was growing harder to ignore, practically forcing Stiles to pull his mouth off Derek and reach towards his wallet to find a condom. 

“ _Please_ ,” Derek said, his voice weak and needy. “Stiles.”

“Gonna prep you some more,” Stiles responded. “Gotta get you up to three fingers.”

“Don’t need it.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Stiles got his hands on the jar of oil again and slicked up three fingers, though he only slid the first two inside Derek at first. He fucked them in and out, smoothly until Derek began palming at Stiles’s cock. “Shit,” he said. “Derek, you gotta wait.” Stiles inserted the third finger and was met with little resistance, and he quickly determined that Derek was ready enough. 

Stiles took his cock in hand, stroking it once before rolling the condom down his length and lining himself up behind Derek. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, and it sounded surprisingly more like an order than a plea. “Hurry the hell u—“

And then Stiles slid inside slowly in a single stroke, and then Derek was back to pleading, back to begging for _more_ and _harder_ and _faster_. Stiles set a slow pace at first, trying to make it last, and moved his hand to wrap it around Derek’s flushed, leaking cock. He was swiping his thumb across the slit, smearing the bead of precum that had gathered there, when Derek shuddered, his cock jerking in Stiles’s hand. 

“Did you just come?” Stiles asked, still thrusting steadily and relishing in the way Derek’s hole was contracting as though attempting to draw Stiles’s cock deeper. 

Derek shook his head. “No, but I’m close, fuck.”

Stiles looked at Derek’s cock, saw that it was still florid and straining, a harsh pink in color as it leaked. 

It was this sight and the knowledge that came with it—knowing just how much Derek was enjoying it—that made Stiles increasingly desperate. Their bodies were slick, slipping against one another with every thrust, and Stiles was suddenly incapable of maintaining a steady pace. 

What started as a smooth rolling of his hips and an even pace quickly turned to frantic, erratic thrusts that went hard and deep and, from the sounds Derek was making, occasionally nailed Derek’s prostate. Derek’s dick was twitching every couple thrusts, and it wasn’t long after Stiles started toying with his foreskin that Derek groaned and spilled across Stiles’s wrist, falling onto his forearms on the counter. 

Stiles came not long after, biting into the skin of Derek’s shoulder when he did.

“Jesus,” Stiles panted when he finally pulled out, tossing the condom in the trash as he went to find his pants. 

“Yeah,” Derek said, head resting on the counter and voice muffled. 

It was just as Stiles was pulling on his jeans that they heard the sound of the door opening, the sound of feet on hardwoods. 

“Merry Christmas!” Melissa exclaimed as she walked through the front door. 

“We got the gravy! How’s the turkey coming?” Scott asked. 

Stiles looked to Derek, his eyes widening as he buttoned his jeans. “Please tell me you slipped the turkey in the oven.” 


End file.
